


One more (blue) light

by Idjit_01



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester Needs Help, Drunk John Winchester, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Graphic Description, Pre-Season/Series 01, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25438108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idjit_01/pseuds/Idjit_01
Summary: There is no wind roaring in tune with his emotions tonight. No rain to match the tears he would sport if it wasn't downrightembarrassingto cry. 'Take a grip, Winchester' his dad would say, 'you're not a baby anymore. Stop crying.We have no time for this.'It's like the universe is playing a joke on him. Like it finds it fuckingfunnyto destroy the perfect day he had chosen for this.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	One more (blue) light

There is no wind roaring in tune with his emotions tonight. No rain to match the tears he would sport if it wasn't downright _embarrassing_ to cry. 'Take a grip, Winchester' his dad would say, 'you're not a baby anymore. Stop crying. _We have no time for this_ .'

It's like the universe is playing a joke on him. Like it finds it fucking _funny_ to destroy the perfect day he had chosen for this.

You see, he wasn't like one of those thoughtless emotionally crippled selfish nut cases who committed suicides in the brink of noticing a strong emotion for a few seconds.Yes, he could be impulsive, but he had thought this through. It was time.

He had thought this through. He had even, for the first time in his life, willingly done research. He had done a list, for fucks sake.

First, he had to choose a day. That was pretty easy. Well, he had settled with three possible options. November 2nd, the day the fire that killed his mom ripped his future apart; January 24th, his birthday or the day Sam left for Stamford. He wanted the date to have some significance. 

After mulling it over for a few days, he finally chose his own birthday: he didn't want to disrespect his mom or brother by taking them away the days that changed his life the most. It was also hilarious and kinda poetic to live exactly a number of years. He just had to be careful to be done at the time the clock ticked over to his birth hour, or the length of his life would be uneven. 

Besides, he knew there was going to be a storm that morning and he had always wanted to die during a storm: he wanted to pretend the world was mad and grieving that he wasn't gonna be there anymore.

Once satisfied with the date, he had to make sure to have all his affairs in order. He didn't owe anything to anyone and his Baby was going to Sammy and that was it. Not having a home meant not having to worry about bills or mortgage. Not having friends or anyone to talk to for months besides a father he knew would we relieved to work without a liability like himself beside him meant there was no one who would actually suffer because of his loss.

He visited Sam in Stanford and Bobby at his autoshop —without being seen or interacting with them, of course— to make sure they had all their needs met.

With a clear conscience, only the method was missing. He wasn't gonna let someone -or _something_ kill him. Even though that would be easier to explain and to stage, he wasn't a petty coward.

Once that was settled, he was inclined on a fast bullet to his brain at first, but after a while he decided he wasn't going to traumatize some poor cleaner with the mess that would live, so that was out of the table. Then he thought about cutting his wrists, but that was too _girly_ and he was going to die like a man.

The not making a mess took the option of throwing himself off a building away as well. Painkillers were too painful and sincerely, his tolerance to alcohol was too high to him to be able to pay enough booth to kill him. 

A noose around his neck was sincerely the most appealing way he could think off. Sure, it would be hard to bite back his hunter instincts and get himself out of such a dire situation, but he knew his way around knots and he knew himself, so he could predict what he would try when his survival instincts kicked in and how to prevent any form of succeeding.

And yeah, someone would find him and be traumatized, but at least they wouldn't have to clean. It would be quick and easy to get rid of his corpse.

Once decided he had to go out for supplies. Find a good spot to hang himself —that motel in Kansas had a jerk for a janitor and a pretty strong structure he could use to carry away his plan— and get a strong piece of rope that could support his weight.

So five days were left for it to happen and naturally he had stop eating. He had to make it as easier as possible to succeed. Restricting his intake he would be lighter and the rope breaking because of his weight wouldn't be such a plausible problem. Besides, he would be weaker and hopefully already dizzy with hunger, so he wouldn't be able to fight back as if he was held hostage during a case.

Not that it would be hard. He had starved to keep Sammy safe and full before and he had given up his love for burgers and pies little after Sammy left. He didn't eat that much anymore: stopping wouldn't hurt him at all.

Two days later he went to buy the perfect rope: his death sentence. He felt hazy during the whole ordeal, which was probably why he didn't drive at all. That would cause an accident and he couldn't die out of schedule. The only shop near enough to go to without him falling over —he was seriously dizzy— was a small convenience store in front of the diner near the motel. 

Dean got in just after it opened, the chances to bump into anyone would be slimmer. Not that he would be ashamed or anything, he just didn't want to deal with awkward greetings, forced flirting or uncomfortable bumping through the small halls of the store. Feeling unsteady, he dropped his gaze to his hands and walked stiffly into the store.

The next thing Dean was aware off was the feeling of the rope against his hands. He was sitting on a bed —on _his_ temporary motel bed and drool was running down his cheek. He shrugged it off —it wasn't the first time he had lost time— and laid on the bed. 

He was tired: he just wanted it to end. Just three days.

There is no wind roaring in tune with his emotions tonight. No rain to match the tears he would sport if it wasn't downright _embarrassing_ to cry. 'Take a grip, Winchester' his dad would say, 'you're not a baby anymore. Stop crying. _We have no time for this_ .'

It's like the universe is playing a joke on him. Like it finds it fucking _funny_ to destroy the perfect day he had chosen for this.

The barely risen sun shines through the windows, warmth seeping through the cracks in the glass. There weren't even clouds to obscure the sky.

Dean sighs. It was just fitting: nothing could go like he wanted for once. He quickly thinks of postponing: but no, he was already prepared. He was already there. 

He stands up and checks the time: 5:51am. He'll do it at 5:55, perfect time to die. 

He's already dressed and the rope is already attached and secured over the crappy chair the motel's termites were eating away. He rests with a door on the chair and waits. His hands are fidgeting restlessly, but he feels calm. He's strong enough to admit when its time to step out. It's okay.

5:52. He's clicking his tongue. He's definitely _not_ second-guessing himself. 

5:53. Something's bothering him. Something he might have forgotten, but he remembers checking everything in the list. He vaguely recalls something blue, something soft against his skin. The blue is overwhelming, too intense, it makes him too vulnerable. He blinks it away.

5:54. He steps fully onto the chair. It smells like sweat and new. It's quiet. It's cold, the suns warmth fighting against his bone-deep chill. It's quiet. It's time.

5:55. He takes the noose into his hands, heart thumping exhausted in his chest, lowers his head into it and– knock knock.

"Dean, are you there? I know it's a bit early, bou forgot something at the store."

Dean sighs again. So much for the perfect time. Five minutes more and it's time. At 6am. It's okay. Not as beautiful as 5:55, but still. A clean number. It's fine.

He opens a bit the door enough for the person to see him but not the set up behind him and– Blue. So much blue.

_Fuck._

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos and comments are encouraged.  
> I hope you liked it.
> 
> Written in the early morning -haven't gone to sleep yet-.
> 
> Title is a reference to Linkin Park's One More Light.
> 
> Suicide is not a joking matter. I try not to glamourize it, but I don't know if I succeeded. If you feel in any way like this or find yourself thinking about ending your life, please reach out for help.
> 
> I hope it was okay. Take care~


End file.
